“That she is coming home to-morrow, sir.”
“Nay, that cuts her holiday too short.”
“She says she is resolved to come, sir.”
“And what else, dearest?”
“Oh, she says my aunt Maria took her to the fair at Dordt—and that they had a feast of pancakes, and all drank your health twice over.”
She slipped her letter into the Grand Pensionary’s hand. “There is one for you indoors,” she added.
They entered the house by the wide-open windows of the library; at that moment a servant brought in the candles, and the two men paused on the threshold of the room.
At a lacquered Chinese cabinet Maria de Witt, in a prim white dress, sat on a high chair, her feet dangling, laboriously and gravely writing with a huge quill that waved over her shoulder and tangled itself with her yellow curls.
Beside her, tiptoeing that he might see, was her little brother, who supported himself by his hands on the desk.
A child still in skirts sat on the floor near them; he was in red leading-strings fastened to a heavy arm-chair, and appeared to be engaged in working his feet out of his shoes.